Son of Amn
by Incanto
Summary: Conspiracy swirls around the southerly City of Coin, and men and women from all walks of life-nobles, mercenaries and merchants alike-are drawn into deadly games of political maneuver and centuries-old vendetta. The story of Baldur's Gate: Shadows of Amn…with one big difference.
1. Confessions

Author's Note: _I'm really not sure about this one._

_First, because I have a shameful bunch of unfinished fic sitting around that I'm just now getting back to; also because this game was old enough when I wrote my version of BG1, Fury, almost ten years ago, even though the Enhanced Edition breathed new life in the franchise. But I wrote Fury (which found its way onto TV Tropes somehow and continues to be far & away the most popular thing I've ever written) in the summer before college. Now, it's the summer before I return for grad school at the same institution. Over the years I threatened to take on SoA, a game that I've played more than any other, several times, and maybe it finally is time, if anyone remembers this fossil. Anyway, I'll see how it goes._

_As the summary says, this is the story of Baldur's Gate: Shadows of Amn with one really, really big difference. I wonder how long it will take before it becomes obvious what that might be..._

_Incanto_

* * *

Confession was a sham. Oh, not the sacrament itself; that had been a source of immeasurable comfort over so many years, whether dredging up some black, ugly thing that had stopped up the pipe of heart, holding it up to the weak light, like tea, that filtered into the cell, where it seemed not so horrible; or being assured by a laughing voice that Helm the All-Seeing did not care if he sometimes lingered by the corner of Westenra Lane because he liked that way the foreign-born maids laughed as they hung out the wash. The sham was having to pretend you had no idea who was on the other side of that screen.

There were four hundred souls or so sweating out their salvation in the halls of the Most Holy Order of the Radiant Heart, and while an elder brother might depart on a pilgrimage here, or a disheartened young squire break from strain and throw down his commission there, they were mostly the same souls, summer and winter out, their voices, high or gruff, musical, or broken and halting, much the same whether they were arguing over a heel of bread at table, softly praying in their cells as you passed by of a quiet night on the way to your own, or gossiping around the turn of one of those enormously long, enormously high-ceilinged halls that were the avenues and boulevards of their small sacred city. You knew their voices, how they coughed, licked their lips, the tics they had when they were being untruthful, or simply unkind. Anomen Delryn knew his confessor by voice; but the next time he passed Sir Keldorn Firecam at the stable, gently but firmly chiding the lad for brushing his sable charger front-back rather than top-down, he would look straight ahead, pretend they had no closer acquaintance than any rank squire could have with a noted paladin who was, moreover, received in the finest drawing-rooms of Amn.

Anomen sat on the straw bench with a quick nervous motion. It creaked. There was a creak in response from the other cell, as if his confessor had dozed off (and it was possible, he thought uncharitably, Ole Sire Firecam was no longer the proverbial chicken of spring). There was a moment of silence, pious or otherwise.

Anomen wore new, pale brown leather boots, bought from his family's tailor on the Bridge ("ah, does the heart good to clap eyes on ye, lad, the old man, he never comes to see us these days"). The hair around his temples was curled, and set with cream. The boots had cost fifteen silver, the cream two. The remaining three silvers of his weekly stipend he had put in an envelope with a note reading: _One for butler, two for cook. I know we owe butler more, but he is a gentle soul & loyal whereas I do not trust that Maztican savage not to poison the evening gruel from spite. _He addressed the envelope with a great big flourish: _Moira_, tapped the quill pen exactly four times on the inkwell, licked the envelope twice, and set off for confession with it still in his pocket. The lower-ranking and coarser brothers had whistled, leered at his new boots, attitudes ranging from friendly jocularity to the really offensive. If they had seen the girls' name on the envelope they would have taken her for his paramour.

"Good evening, son," came the voice from the screen. Then a pause, a chuckle: "Though it is not much past noon. _Good afternoon_ sounds formal though, it has the air of leave-taking for some reason, I find…"

Anomen found himself resenting that voice, in spite of himself. It was so smooth, like silver. How different from his own voice when he spoke, that must be so familiar itself to his confessor, and all his brothers in arms. There were times when it sounded to him like the bleating of a goat. Had Firecam (no, his nameless confessor) always possessed that voice? Did age scar the face but smooth the tongue?

"Good evening, father."

Too stiff. The irritation had come through. Always leaking, spilling, that was him. Blood leaking into his cheeks. He could almost feel the hair curling at his temples, sweat washing out the damned expensive cream.

"Is there aught you wish to bring before the eyes of Helm today?"

_I had impure thoughts_, he wished to say.

"Yes, father," was what came out. "I was down at the tap-house once more."

Another good-humored chuckle. "The same as before? That well-known, if not universally well-regarded, public house of the Slums?"

"Aye."

"What did you do there…I wonder? Squander your coin in debauchery? Fall into the arms of a strumpet?"

"Nay."

"And were you tempted?"

Anomen cast his eyes down. The barred window made a regular grid pattern on the floor, that looked fittingly Helmite. "Yes," he said, sounding to himself too brash, too quick. "When men are enjoying themselves…one feels a prig not to join in. You understand? Such 'pleasures,' why, no, they do not seem to me pleasures at all. My tongue dries up at the thought. But whatever it is they do…it makes them laugh a great deal. Do you understand? The laughter is the temptation. I don't wish to partake in anything they do…but there are times when I would really like, I would like terribly much, to laugh with them…"

He caught himself up. Then he realized he was twisting one of those curls very tight in the fingers of his right hand, and the cream was coming away.

"Forgive me," said his sainted, anonymous confessor. "You do not have many friends here. Do you, squire?"

"An odd question. The elder brothers discourage idle banter. I was not aware that it was the aim of the Order to foster friendship. On the battlefield…well, that is a different matter! Men become fast friends quick enough facing a raging ogre. I should not have to tell you that…father. I have passed many an enjoyable eve round a campfire with brothers of the North, or irregulars from Tethyr. But that is a matter for the campaign trail…and left behind there."

"Then what, praytell, leads your tread to yon tap-house of yours?"

"I believe I said. There is a coarseness, an honesty about those folk I like. Of course…with the exception of our blessed order, the fighters among the noble youth," he bit off with a severity that was uncalled-for, and he knew it, because his face was getting redder, because he was trying to sound older than he was, and knew it, "think of nothing but their own gain, and would never undertake a commission for honor or glory…let alone right and the good. And if I cannot have the latter, I may at least find some companion who cares for the former."

"And the ale, you take little?"

"I have a seen what it does to a man."

"Ah…yes." A rustle behind the screen. Perhaps his confessor adopted an attitude of deep thought. Perhaps his posterior was simply itching. "Well. Be it so, there is no sin. You are aware of the temptations of this place, and you are honest about them. Do not lie to others, but_ above all _do not lie to yourself. Then you will get on well.-Was there anything else?"

"Nay, father."

"Good day, then. Or, should I say, perhaps…good afternoon?"

"Wait."

"Yes?"

Smooth. Calm. Patient. Had that nameless, faceless confessor of his even begun to rise, to gather his robes? Or had he known there was more to come?

"I had impure thoughts."

"The maids again, my son?"

"_Not_ maids, though I hear that smile. It is…worse, this time."

A hesitation, and he thought the silence had a more serious quality than before.

"You need tell me nothing," his confessor finally said. "Only this. Is she a lady, low-born or high, and whatever her character, of whom you might one day make an honest woman?"

"There are obstacles," he answered, with a readiness that surprised him.

"Then I am afraid you might be well-advised to abandon your design. Pray to Helm for purity, and try to keep such thoughts from your mind. Keep busy, and absent yourself from the tap-house if you find that makes it worse. Fiends make work for idle hands."

He was shocked, a little, by the speed with which his confessor, so slow, so patient, had drawn that curtain. Simply whisked it shut in front of him. But no, it was all silliness, and vileness. Anomen felt more ashamed of himself than ever.

"I must take my leave."

"So be it. Helm watch your steps."

Was he as relieved the interview was at an end? Or had it, perhaps, pained him to give that last piece of advice? How long had he been married to that elegant woman who sat beside him in Amn's best parlors, and had there been anything before…?

…Anomen might have asked. If, that was, he were speaking to Sir Keldorn Firecam, but that would never occur. There was only a blank voice behind a screen, that was meant to be, in symbol, the unerring voice of Helm himself.


	2. Commissions

Author's Note: _I'm not sure which I like better; the accidental resemblance in this chapter to a classic (and successfully remade) film, or that I could just take my three established characters and do an extended riff on said film, since they correspond pretty well to its leads. _

_Don't worry, I won't go down that road._

* * *

_The dwarf was drunk again._

Bylanna cursed inwardly as she put the words on parchment. The hot summer months led to a spike in crime, and accordingly enquiries, and when the Council found itself short-handed she herself, the examining magistrate, often had to double as court scribe. That would be the title of her memoirs; _The Dwarf Was Drunk Again, A Legacy of Jurisprudence_. He had been drunk when the officers questioned him, drunk when he showed up for the arraignment, and by all accounts, drunk while committing the deed.

The enquiry chamber was unlit; generous drifts of afternoon sunlight only buffeted the heavy red curtains, and warm, honey-colored air slid along the floor with the dust. Everything was dark and tinted red. The dwarf lolled there in his wooden chair like somebody's obese grandfather, his white beard looking paternal, until a closer glimpse showed it encrusted with filth. He fingered the long handle of his axe with one hand, and held an unlit pipe in the other. Bylanna, light-haired, fine-featured, peered over the golden edge of her reading spectacles. The dwarf met her with two eyes like chips of lusterless mineral in a marbled piece of stone. Somehow _he_ was the one able to look contemptuous.

"For this court's records, please state your family and your given name."

"Bloodaxe. So called," he said, "though that be a name of me own invention, not that of any proper stoneborn clan that'd admit to sirin' me." He inserted the gnawed, moist stump of the pipe in his mouth, but did not light it. "As for the given, it be Korgan."

"And your occupation."

"Spender of coin. Drinker of ales, grogs and other potables. Finally, hunter n' killer of men, elves, and fellow dwarves. Ha!"

_Korgan Bloodaxe_, wrote Bylanna. _Bounty hunter._

"You lay claim to the bounty of five hundred gold coins placed on the head of the gnome Neb, variously called the Cutter, offered by the Flaming Fist of the city of Baldur's Gate; an offer countersigned by the Council of Athkatla and city guard, with a deduction of twenty-seven silver pieces for logistical considerations, leaving the final sum to be deposited in your hands, four hundred ninety-nine gold pieces, seventy-three silver pieces. This is correct?"

"Ah did for the child-butcher, it that be what ye mean."

Fat fingers in a leather glove caressed the axe-handle.

"And are you aware, Mr….Bloodaxe, that the writ of bounty in question specified: _wanted alive_?"

The dwarf snorted. "Aye. _Wanted alive_. A rich tale, that."

"What do you mean, Mr. Bloodaxe."

Bored-looking, Korgan cast his eyes around the chamber. The small room, much taller than it was wide, felt empty. The victim's crimes had been committed far away; there were a few attendant guards in uniform, young barristers jotting down facts in the case for their own curiosity, leaving ink smudges on their white novices' sleeves, and a few of Athkatla's old wives who turned out for anything sordid, moaning softly from time to time into their handkerchiefs. Then there was one young figure wearing a hood, who sat near the back. Korgan's eyes lingered on this figure for a moment before he spoke again:

"Nae one had _wanted_ the sodden piss-bucket alive for a very long time. Not even his dam, if the old cow still had the misfortune of drawing breath. Yer ladyship may be wasting our time here, but nae such time will be wasted on _him_ in any chamber. Nor any prison. I submit to ye, a prison bed is a place for a lad to have a kip when he can't be arsed to walk home from the pub. Not to be wasted on the likes of _him_."

Then he lit his pipe, striking a match up his traveler's boot, and reached for the flask on his belt.

"The witness will refrain from smoking tobacco or consuming alcohol in the chamber of enquiry."

"Aw! Will he, now?"

"I remind you," Bylanna said through set teeth, while a guard snickered, "there is a fine of no less than ten gold pieces for each offense."

"Take it out my bounty then," said Korgan, leaning back, and creaking in his leather with the truly enviable sound of a man who knew what made him happy, "'tis a small price for making this pissant hour more bearable."

Bylanna opened her mouth wide; but stopped, shrugged, and sharply informed the bailiff: "So be it.-If the bounty is issued, the amount shall be reduced by the sum of twenty gold. Now, Mr. Bloodaxe. Please describe the manner in which you went about…apprehending your quarry."

Korgan took a swig from the flask, wiped his mouth in the palm of his glove, belched softly, and started: "Well, yer ladyship. My contacts put me on the scent of a dwarf, name of Unger Hilldark. A grey one, he. Not overmuch popular among my kin, nor yours. So I tracks him to his room, waits til dark, breaks in the rear door, ties the half-sleeping geezer to the bed, and burns his feet with matches til he talks."

"Did you have any doubts regarding said course of action?"

"Aye, perhaps. A waste o' good matches. Must have spent a round dozen. Ah should've used a candle, ha, ha!"

Bylanna pursed her lips.

"What I mean to say is…perhaps less…extreme methods of coercion may have been effective."

"Never know now, will we?"

Reeking drifts rose from dwarf's head to the high ceiling. His tobacco was of the coarsest type. The cheap quills of the young barristers scribbled.

"Then once the ah, unfortunate Mr. Hilldark had been so treated, and you were put on the scent of the fugitive himself…?"

"I tracks him to his shop on the Bridge. Waits for dark. Knocks in the back winder. 'elp, 'elp! goes he, like a proper wee girl; and the sound was irritatin' something powerful, so, I cuts out his tongue. Then I hangs him up in the bath and has a wee look about. Finds a good bottle, half full. When I gets back to the bath, he's still trashing about, like, so, I pulls up a chair to watch the show. Had him tied up by one leg I did, ower the bath. Big scared eyes had he, like a fish. _Argh, gargle-bargle_, goes he. Harr! Must have taken twenty minutes. Small tongues have gnomes, not them great big veins there like men or dwarves."

By the end of this, even the guard who had laughed before was twisting his head away, looking into the corners.

Bylanna rubbed her temples. All at once, it seemed very late in the day.

"Would it be fair to say," she enunciated, carefully, "that you were so disgusted by the nature of your bounty's crimes, that your handling of the matter may have been…excessive?"

Korgan seemed to think a moment.

"Naw."

_Say yes_, her eyes communicated. _Just say yes, so we can get this farce over with, you can take your blood money, and start pissing it up the wall._

"Then why did you do what you did?"

"Why?" said Korgan, and snorted smoke. "_Why_? Cause it was thumping good fun, that's why. Is it a bit out of order, choppin' up wee kiddies? Tae be sure; but it may as well have been anyone else, as him. Difference is, with him n' his lot? Not many fine, upstanding folk such as yer ladyship," and he regarded her from under his shaggy brows, "tend to kick up a fuss ower them. Does ye?"

"No…Mr. Bloodaxe. Typically speaking, the amount of fuss raised could be described as less than considerable."

The dwarf took another drink.

"So. Does I get me money, or no?"

* * *

Korgan lay on his cot in his rooms at the Copper Coronet. Rumor had it that Lehtinen stuffed the mattresses with the hair of his dead whores. No matter; four big clay jars of mead, each the size of a dragon's testicle, that had not been there the day before, would have made many a harder bed palatable. The familiar whorls in the hardwood ceiling, mixing with his pipe smoke, swam in front of his eyes, and the noise of the inn was a comforting murmur from somewhere far off.

There was a knock.

He waited, to be sure it was no product of the old delirium. Not many were fool enough to knock on his door by mistake. He was a long time resident; the other long time residents knew, and would warn others.

The same knock. Hellfire and dross, it sounded like a debt collector. Stiff and formal. If there was one thing Korgan hated, it was an empty wineskin; if there was another, it was a hairless woman; but somewhere down that list were debt collectors of all breeds, only, unluckily, there tended to be more fuss over one such than any Neb.

"Speak and be quick about it!"

"Mr. Korgan Bloodaxe? I-I wish to speak with you."

A lassie. Young, too, by the sound.

Korgan's eyes that Bylanna had observed, that were flat and lusterless, but caught the light from time to time like a pair of dead rocks, as if in spite of themselves, opened.

"It's nae locked."

The door eased open. A slender figure stood there in a robe, and while he could only see the lower part of her face, her sensitive little bud of a nose clenched up, her pretty lips pursed, and that lithe figure tensed in the doorway. Korgan lay there catlike, grinning at her.

"Seat yerself. Pull out a stopper. I find meself with a fair bit o' the yeller tae squander. No miserly stonecutter, I! Harr. Say, lass…" Without shifting his muscled bulk on the mound of pillows, he craned his neck: "I seen ye. At the arraignment."

His guest was arranging herself on the single rickety chair, and she stiffened at this. He laughed again.

"What's that? Ashamed? Bloodthirsty little thing, creeps into the courtroom for a tale o' gore. No cause to be ashamed, lass. Many sweet young things have a taste for blood. A shame your human society disnae let you indulge it."

"I'm sure I wouldn't know anything about that," his guest spoke in a high, correct voice. "I'll be frank about my business, I have come to engage you as a mercenary. That is what you do? I am ashamed you saw me earlier, because I was making an effort not to be seen, not by _you_, by others, and of course it is shameful not to do something well, but that is all beside the point really. The point is…" she drew in breath, "do you want to make a handsome commission, or not? I'm in considerable need, I won't be dishonest about that, but…I feel that you're not a dishonest person either, and if the reward is sufficient, you wouldn't be the type to take advantage of me in my distress."

Korgan was searching for his pipe. Suddenly he discovered it, pressed in the folds between his gut and the yellowed sheets. His guest turned his head as he wiped it on the sheet.

"Ye've said a right mouthful. There are a number of factors ah'd have to consider, like, before undertaking a commission."

"Such as?"

"The sport o' the thing! Can you assure me a better time," he spread out of his hand, "then lying in bed a fortnight, while consuming each and every one of these here, me new boon companions?"

"If it's blood you have a taste for, I can assure you, you'll have sport enough."

"Understand, lass. There's blood, n' there's _blood_."

"I, I don't know what you mean by that."

"Speak plain. What do ye face, n' in what numbers?"

"There's…there is no time for that. The keep may already have fallen, and…"

"_Keep_? Speak up, silk-britches," aye, she had a noble's voice, and a little noble's nose too, "ah'm no big pointy-eared elf. Whose keep?"

Her face colored, and it reached the part of her face he could see. She leaned closer, those adorable nostrils flattening as they entered the cloud of his stench, and whispered it to him. Immediately he rose off the pillows.

"Aye? A glutton and a drinker he may be, but Korgan Bloodaxe is naebody's fool. It's a day's travel to the De'Arnise holdings. A day made up of many moments, any one of which would dae to inform me what needs killin'. So open up them cherry dolly lips an' spit it out!"

She whispered that, too.

A smile began to split his meaty face, like a gash from the axe that stood, lonesome, in the corner of the room.


End file.
